Kyoto station was three levels of glass and steel surrounded by multilevel department stores and restaurants. Munroe led them up from the parking level and out the main entrance, across the street to a Starbucks whose large portico patio and interior were filled with so many foreigners they’d never stand out.

It had been more than a day since she’d eaten, was probably the same or longer for Alina. Munroe ordered enough food from the cold cases to feed four people. They found seats near the back and between bites that curbed the shaking hunger, Munroe said, “How long before they give you a passport?”

Alina looked down at her food. “How did you know?”

“I’m familiar with bureaucracy and red tape. Did you tell them the truth?”

“They would keep me longer to ask questions and would want to make a police report, and Jiro would use that as a map to find me.”

“How long?”

Alina reached into her purse and handed Munroe the remaining yen and the receipt for the paperwork. “Two days.”

Munroe scanned the receipt and passed it back, with the money. “Keep it,” she said. “I’ll drop you off at the hotel, I have to work.”

Alina’s hand, halfway to her mouth, froze. Voice low and desperate, she said, “Please let me go with you.”

“Not a good idea.”

“Please.”

Munroe stared at the table weighing options between bites and swallows. Alina had seen things, knew things. Carting her around, out in the open, carried risks; so did leaving her defenseless in a hotel room. She said, “If you saw the men who were with my friend that night, would you recognize them?”

Alina nodded, far too vigorously.

Munroe sighed, appetite gone, burden heavy. When height and skin flashed attention-grabbing neon at every step, two days was a long time to keep a target hidden from a man who wanted her dead.